Never Tell Me the Odds
by notproperlykoalified
Summary: OR, A Diseased Alligator, a Misplaced "Amnesiac", and Nurse Robin (Hood), and How they meet Peter Parker. A slightly AU perspective on how Civil War's Peter Parker grew up in the MCU. Contains censored profanity, some violence, and some terrible jokes. (Mild Daredevil S2 Spoilers, pre Civil War AU)
1. Part 1

**Never Tell Me the Odds**

 **or**

 **A Diseased Alligator, a Misplaced "Amnesiac", and Nurse Robin (Hood), and How they meet Peter Parker.**

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters used in this fanfiction, or any of the Star Wars quotes. Thanks!

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August 11, 2001

Peter Parker is born.

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October 28, 2010

A couple of weeks ago, when Peter Parker was asked what he would like to be for Halloween, he confidently asserted that he would be an Ionic Pillar. They were, Peter would explain excitedly, his favorite types of classical Greek pillars. Doric pillars were too plain, Corinthian pillars too heavily ornamented.

Yes, he would nod with a smile (revealing a missing tooth, perhaps it would come back for Christmas), Ionic Pillars are just right.

The natural follow up question, of course, when a child proudly chooses to be an Ionic Pillar for Halloween is to ask if they wanted to be an architect when they grow up.

"Of course not! I wanna be a window-washer!"

A window washer?

"Yeah! Because window-washers get to see the city from the best possible view – up in the air! Architects need to stay inside all the time, but window-washers are right there, next to the sky-scrapers and the streets and the birds and stuff!"

That's very nice, dear, the questioner would say, hastily moving onto another subject. Good little boys shouldn't think about such dangerous professions, they'd think.

Of course, two weeks later, Peter Parker no longer wanted to be an Ionic Pillar for Halloween. A couples weeks ago Iron Man hadn't made his debut as a hero, using his genius to battle the evils of the world.

Peter Parker, along with youths across the country, wanted to Iron Man for Halloween.

This posed quite a dilemma for Peter, as Iron Man had only existed (for all intents and purposes) for about and week, and any available costumes were quite expensive.

Supplies, time, and available design information were limited. Peter relished in the challenge.

Peter faced trials in construction from the very beginning. Uncle Ben forbade Peter from using scrap metal ("but it's supposed to be _Iron Man_ armor, it can't be paper!") so the young inventor was forced to substitute cardboard and aluminum foil.

"So, I'm Aluminum man?" Peter joked.

"Once I make you a hat," Uncle Ben smirked. "To keep the government from controlling you mind."

"Ben!" Aunt May swatted her husband with a smile. "You'll need a better apparatus than a foil hat to keep _that_ from happening," she winked at Peter.

Peter discarded the hat idea, and set to work on running lights through his armor. Using a couple strings of Christmas lights, Peter crafted repulsors for his hands and an arc-reactor for his chest, using a portable battery as a power source.

As a finishing touch, Peter painted blue and red onto the armor.

On the big night, Aunt May adjusted Peter's gauntlets, while Uncle Ben checked that the lights wouldn't overheat.

Peter rushed over to the bathroom mirror to see how his armor looked.

 _Awesome._

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June 4, 2011

Peter's first instinct when The Abomination turned its focus onto him ought to have been to run, at the very least. But the other giant brawling on the streets of Harlem was out for the count, at least for the moment. As far as giant super-powered beings go, Peter quite liked that one.

So, Peter stalled. "Hey ugly! I'm confused about what you are, dude. I mean, obviously some sort of biped, but you have the complexion of diseased alligator. I mean, seriously, are you supposed to be a reptile or what, because I really can't tell."

The Abomination shifted its focus from its green opponent, fixing a wrathful glare on the little boy.

"You know, I don't think all that anger you have is healthy," Peter advised, dodging between cars. "Seriously, your veins are bulging out like, everywhere. Neck, chest, shoulders, even your privates! Do you even have privates? At least the other guy has pants …"

The Abominations swiped with a veined arm, nearly striking Peter.

"Touchy subject, I get that," Peter broke into a full sprint.

I am such an idiot, Peter reflected. I should have waited to confront a giant veiny-monster _at least_ after seeing Harry whup Voldemort's butt in _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2._

"Perhaps you could get a therapist?" Peter suggested. I'm going to need a therapist after this, he thought. "Talk out some of your problems. I mean, what has Harlem ever done to you?"

The giant-green-man-with-the-decency-to-wear-pants punched The Abomination square in the jaw. Peter took that as his cue to run away from Harlem.

He thought about making a quip about the Renaissance, but the moment didn't feel right.

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April 17, 2012

"Excuse me, sir?" Peter approached the stranger carefully. "Would you like some directions? You look a bit lost."

The man gaped at him.

"Scratch that, you look very lost," Peter bit his lip.

"This is all very new," the man was breathing very heavily. "How are those signs moving?" he exhaled. "And the cars…"

Peter studied the stranger more carefully. His first instinct was to assume that this was some sort of elaborate publicity stunt, and Betty White was about to jump out a window yelling about catnip, but it didn't fit. The man looked genuinely confused, as if he were about to have a panic attack. He needed help. Amnesia, maybe?

"My name's Peter, and it looks like you need a local tour guide," he smiled at the man.

"Steve," the man introduced himself, sticking out his hand.

He seemed like a very polite amnesiac, Peter reflected. "Nice to meet you, Steve! So, let's start with basics. This is Times Square, the esophagus of New York City. Queens, obviously is the heart."

Steve chuckled, almost hysterically. "What's Brooklyn, then?"

"The lungs, of course!" Peter smiled. "Now New York is on the Isle of Manhattan, in the state of New York, in the United States."

Steve looked very relieved to hear that.

"President Ellis was just elected, which is a shame, because I really did like Obama…"

"Ellis? Obama?" Steve asked, worry once more coloring his voice.

"Yeah, man," Peter bit his lip. "Welcome to 2012."

The hitch in Steve's breath did not go unnoticed.

"Thank you, Peter," Steve looked straight at the kid. "I appreciate your help. But I, I think there are some things I need to do."

Now, normally Peter wasn't one to go around hugging anybody but his Aunt and Uncle, but Steve was an amnesiac that Peter guessed didn't have a friend in the world at the moment, so Peter gave the guy a big hug. Steve hugged back like he was holding onto a lifeboat.

"You're a good kid," Steve said, planting a hand on Peter's shoulder.

Peter smiled at the amnesiac. "Hey," he fished through wallet for a scrap of paper, and found a used subway stub. He scribbled his cellphone number on the ticket stub. "This is my cellphone number. If you type it into a phone (just ask to borrow someone's, almost everybody has one) then you'll be able to contact me if you need a part two to this tour. Okay?"

Steve nodded, and accepted the ticket stub gratefully. "See you around, Peter."

"Call if you need anything, Steve!"

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May 4, 2012

Peter's phone started vibrating in the middle of his history test. He waffled for a moment, but raised his hand, was excused to go use the bathroom – "Quickly, Peter!" – and left the classroom.

The essay question on Captain America and his importance in WWII could wait.

The caller ID wasn't anything recognizable to Peter, but hardly _anybody_ knew his phone number so it had to be something important…

"Hello?"

"Peter? Thank goodness, it's Steve," Peter heard through his phone. "Are you in New York?"

"Well, yeah, I hardly ever leave New York," Peter responded, confused. He walked down the hallway towards the bathroom.

"You need to leave New York," Steve said, his voice sounding scared to Peter. "Now."

"But I'm at school!" Peter protested. You can't just walk out of school – that's what delinquents do, and Aunt May and Uncle Ben didn't raise a delinquent.

"New York is about to be under attack," Steve countered. "A huge, deadly, alien attack right by Stark Tower."

Peter's mouth suddenly felt very dry. His Aunt and Uncle worked at a hospital within a few blocks of Stark Tower. He didn't waste time doubting Steve, Peter could already tell that Steve was the sort of man who would never lie about an alien attack.

"Where is your school? What kind of structure is it?" Steve asked.

"Um, Queens, it's a big brick building," Peter leaned his head on the bathroom door.

"Good," Steve sounded relieved. "That should be outside of the most immediate danger zone." He paused, and Peter panicked. "Apparently there are emergency procedures set up in the schools. Listen to your teacher. Call this number if…"

"If the school is attacked by aliens?" Peter finished.

"Yeah," Steve sighed. "I'll make sure you get some help."

"Thanks Steve," Peter responded. "I –" (Please keep my Aunt and Uncle safe) "Be safe out there. Or well, at least try not to be maimed. Steve."

"I'll try."

…

No answer.

 _Damn_ it all, there was no _f***ing_ answer and now he wouldn't get to tell the perfect woman that she was worth far more than 12% and that she always had been and she always will be –

"Incoming call from Peter, sir," Jarvis quietly intoned.

Just f***ing perfect, now Spangle's kid was calling because that walking American flag couldn't be bothered to get his own phone.

"Patch him through, Jarvis," Tony directed, despite his ire, because he was a hero, damn it all, and even as he was flying a nuclear bomb ( _f***ing Americans_ ) through a portal so it could blow up on a bunch of aliens he couldn't just ignore a kid in need.

"Steve?" the kid sounded scared.

That made two of them.

"Sorry, you've reached Cap's personal messaging machine," Tony joked. Joking was good. Joking wasn't worrying about how he was going to _blow up_ in a matter of minutes. "What's up kid?"

"Um, just that a giant spiky whale alien with a temper problem just crashed into my school," Peter said, a bit shakily. "Elm Tree Elementary."

"Jarvis?"

"Emergency services and SHIELD have been notified," Jarvis informed Tony.

"Good," Tony breathed. "Help is coming. The aliens should be gone in a couple minutes, too."

"Thank you, sir," Peter replied.

"Great, now I've got a favor ask of you, kid," Tony began, very aware of every breath, every heart beat. "There's this woman, this perfect, beautiful woman named Pepper Potts, and you need to tell her that I love her."

A beat. "I promise I will, Mister," Peter promised. "And, and whatever it is you're doing, thank you."

Tony smiled, and passed through the portal.

"Mister? Mister!"

The signal cut off.

…

Three Days Later

"Ms. Potts?" the secretary asked. "There is a little boy here to see you. His name is Peter Parker? He says it's very important."

Pepper groaned from behind her desk. She really didn't have the time or energy to cope with anything else right now. "I'm currently sorting through piles of paperwork that make the whole Stane fiasco look tame."

"He brought a mug of tea and a plate of cookies for you," the secretary smirked a bit. The give had given her a couple of the cookies. "Homemade chocolate chip cookies."

"Send him in," Pepper swiftly shifted tacks. "Please." Maybe something could go right today.

The secretary ushered in a boy wearing a Pokémon t-shirt and a round pair of glasses. He held a container of chocolate chip cookies close to his chest, and had a mug, presumably of tea, in his other hand.

"Hi Ms. Potts," the kid said politely. "Um, here's some tea and cookies. My Aunt May says that some tea will make people feel better, but I asked my Uncle Ben says that chocolate chip cookies are the answer to all of life's problems so, so I brought some of them too."

"Thank you very much, Peter," Pepper smiled at the kid, walking out from behind her desk to collect the food and drink. "So, what brings you here, Peter?"

"So I was calling my friend Steve the amnesiac," Peter began, fidgeting nervously. "Because he said to call him if anything dangerous was happening, and a giant alien whale had just crashed into my school, and I thought that was pretty dangerous."

Pepper looked more closely at the boy, noting a proliferation of minor scrapes, and a couple Disney Princess Band-Aids.

"But it wasn't Steve that picked up his phone!" Peter gesticulated. "It was this guy who said he Steve's personal messaging machine, but I knew he was joking, because that doesn't even make _any_ sense."

Wait… "What does your friend, Steve the amnesiac look like, Peter?" Pepper asked, suspicious.

"Um, he's really tall, and kind of blonde, and he doesn't look like he could tell a lie if he wanted too," Peter said. "But Mr. Not a Messaging Machine was pretty cool, when I said my school was in trouble, he had his butler send some help over."

Well, that pretty much clinched it, Pepper reflected.

"But Mr. Not a Messaging Machine needed a favor," and here Peter sniffled. "He, he needed me to tell you that he thinks that you're perfect and beautiful and that he loves you. But then the call cut off and -" Peter was crying now.

Pepper placed the tea and cookies on the ground – there was no room on her desk – and knelt and hugged Peter close. "Hey, it's okay Peter. You are _great_ , and thank you so much for delivering Mr. Not a Messaging Machine's message. His name is Tony, and you know what?" Pepper smiled, "He's just upstairs taking a nap right now."

Peter's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Really? He's alive?" Peter broke into a wide grin.

"Despite his best efforts, yes," Pepper smiled.

…

"Jarvis, set aside a college fund for Peter Parker, please," Pepper directed the AI. "And reschedule all of my appointments for tonight. Tony's as well."

"Of course, Ms. Potts," Jarvis responded.

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August 10, 2013

11:55 PM

The time was near, the clock ticking steadily towards the ultimate branch of fate. From here, Peter Parker's life could be drawn in one of two directions – in an interesting one, full of Hippogriffs and ghosts and cauldrons, or a mundane one.

11:56

Personally, Peter Parker thought his chances of being a wizard were pretty high. He was _practically_ Harry Potter. Sure, Aunt May and Uncle Ben aren't rubbish (yes, rubbish) caretakers by any means, but surely the powers that be could overlook that small detail.

11:57

Peter brushed a coat sleeve out of his face. He didn't normally spend much time in the hall closet, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It may not be a cupboard under the stairs, but Peter knew he at least had to make an effort.

11:58

Hogwarts had to be a pretty popular place, at this point. You can't just assume they'll hand an invitation to you on a silver platter.

11:59

(Maybe he could make some friends at Hogwarts. There weren't enough troll attacks in Queens.)

10, 9, 8, 7 …

(He already knew he was a SlytherHuffleRavenDor)

3, 2, 1.

Peter waited for the BOOM of an approaching giant.

There was no BOOM. …He knew he should have moved to Britain.

"Any luck, Peter?" Aunt May asked through the keyhole.

"The officials at Hogwarts must have their time zones confused," Peter sniffled.

"Your owl may have gotten tired while crossing the Atlantic," Uncle Ben suggested, sitting in the hall outside the closet. Aunt May elbowed him quietly.

"Yeah."

"Happy Birthday, Peter."

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May 4, 2014

There were millions of names on Project Insight's hit list, calculated by Professor Zola's algorithm, compiling all available data in order to determine the threat they pose to Hydra and the world.

Officially, the list was not ranked, but buried within layers of data so dense no human bothered to condense or understand, lay a simple fact. Of all the individuals targeted by the Project Insight program, Peter Parker was calculated to be the most dangerous.

… Meanwhile …

"Peter, could you spare a moment to take out the trash?" Aunt May asked, haphazardly opening drawers in search of a sufficiently tiny screwdriver.

"Hmm," the young man replied. "When the force, I feel, I will." Peter's voice was affected with a false, gravelly tone.

"Take out the trash, you will," Uncle Ben plopped the trash bag in front of the false Jedi master.

"PATIENCE YOU MUST HAVE!" Peter shouted, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "If I end my training now – if I choose the quick and easy path as so many before me – I will become an agent of evil."

"Chores are important, Peter," Aunt May reminded the recalcitrant kid.

"You must unlearn what you have learned," Peter nodded sagely. "What are you doing? Hmph. Chores. Heh. Productiveness. Heh."

"Being a productive member of society?" Uncle Ben joked.

"HEH," Peter coughed from the force of his adamant rebuttal. "A Jedi craves not these things."

"If now is not the time to take out the trash, when will the moment be right Master Jedi?" Aunt May asked, wielding her screwdriver deftly.

"Difficult to see," Peter pursed his lips. "Always in motion is the future…"

"You're the one who should be in motion, kiddo," Uncle Ben couldn't help but point out.

"Move, I shall not," Peter refused. Plastic touched his neck.

"Take out the trash, Peter," Aunt May ordered, wielding a newly-repaired blood red light saber with the familiarity of a master nerd. "Join us."

"I baked cookies," Uncle Ben offered.

"Defeated, I am," Peter sighed. "Take out the trash, I will."

"May the Fourth be with you on your journey," Uncle Ben smiled.

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February 26, 2015

Peter knew that the chances of him escaping unscathed were slim, at best. If he were in a Star Wars movie, C3PO would be quoting some disheartening number right now – like 5,692 to 1.

"Never tell me the odds," Peter muttered under his breath.

Peter's best chance lay in stealth, blending into the crowd. He could call on his peers to call attention to themselves with their antics – it was a constant. But the substitute gym teacher – the potentially homicidal, rude, downright _frightening_ redhead commandeering Peter's physical education – had already verbally torn down half of the class.

The carnage began when Britney and Amanda, as per usual, refused to change into their gym clothes. Their normal teacher dealt with this by ignoring the pair, but the substitute rounded on them, describing with crazed eyes and a Russian accent exactly how she would eviscerate Britney and Amanda if they didn't fall into line and put on their shorts.

Next, Flash got it into his head that he could flirt with the substitute teacher, never mind the fact that Flash was a middle school jock with an overinflated ego and the substitute teacher was a Russian Drill Sergeant with the temper of a Wookie that just lost a game of space chess to a robot. Before Flash could even finish saying "Hey there good lookin'" she had swept him off his feet with a kick and sent him to do 100 push ups.

"You are weak, spineless, coward!" substitute Romanoff hollered at her latest victim, a guy who was far to obsessed with bases and reaching them. "You have no respect for others, or yourself." Romanoff's eyes flashed dangerously. "Ten Laps! Now!"

Next to Peter, Wilma Jones was having a minor panic attack. She wasn't particularly fond of gym class on the best of days, but Ms. Romanoff was a menace. Wilma began to breathe quickly. What if Ms. Romanoff found out she couldn't actually do a push up? She'll probably tear me limb from limb… Wilma's overactive and horror-film fueled imagination provided far too many gory images for Wilma's well being.

"Wilma, are you okay?" Peter whispered, noticing his neighbor's panicked breathing.

Wilma managed to shake her head, tears building in her eyes.

Peter steeled himself – so much for remaining under the radar. "C'mon, let's go to the nurse's office." Peter hooked an arm under Wilma's shoulder and started walking with her to the school nurse. Perhaps Ms. Romanoff wouldn't notice…

"Just where do you think you're going?" Ms. Romanoff's harsh voice followed the students.

"I, uh, I think Wilma is having a panic attack," Peter forced himself to look up from his shoes. "I'm taking her to the nurse."

Ms. Romanoff blinked. "Good," she nodded.

"Yes ma'am," Peter responded quickly, surprised he hadn't had an arm torn off by the crazed Russian exercise expert.

…

"Deep breaths, Wilma," Peter said, half-carrying the panicky girl to the nurse's office. He wasn't quite sure what the proper procedure for calming people in the midst of a panic attack was. Belatedly, Peter realized he could have asked his Aunt or Uncle at some point.

Thankfully, the nurse's office was in sight. Peter used his foot to open the door, and looked around for Nurse Belinda. Peter had had enough scrapes and bruises treated here to be quite familiar with the somewhat dotty woman. Instead of Nurse Belinda, though, there was a man wearing scrubs. His nametag read "Nurse Robin." Scribbled on the tag in sharpie was "Hood."

Robin (Hood) took charge of the situation immediately, speaking to Wilma in soothing tones and giving her a mild sedative. She fell straight to sleep. Peter stood stunned by the doorway.

"Ms. Romanoff's class?" Nurse Robin (Hood) asked wryly.

"Yeah," Peter nodded fervently. "I don't blame her," Peter gestured to Wilma. "Ms Romanoff's terrifying," he whispered conspiratorially.

Nurse Robin (Hood) laughed as if that were the punch line to an elaborate joke. "That's the fifth kid that's been sent here today because of that woman," he laughed. "Likes to keep me busy, I suppose."

"Heh," Peter responded awkwardly. "Well, I should probably head back to class…" Peter trailed off as Nurse Robin (Hood) shuttered the window and locked the door.

"Don't panic," Nurse Robin (Hood) knelt in front of Peter, displaying a badge. "My name is Clint Barton, but you might know me better as Hawkeye."

"Hawkeye, like the _Avenger's_ Hawkeye?" Peter scrambled for an explanation.

"In the flesh," Clint smiled.

"… Why are you here? At my school? Talking to me?" Peter asked, bewildered.

"Because, Peter, as a child you were the subject of advanced genetic experimentation on the part of Hydra," Clint explained succinctly. "And they may not know it yet, because they're stupid even if they do have a lot of heads, but the second they recognize who you are, they'll be after you."

"So, you know that stuff you just gave Wilma?" Peter said. "I could use some of that."

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March 11, 2015

"What brings you folks here today?" Foggy asked Nelson and Murdock's latest clients. The Parkers seemed nice enough, though it wasn't often that people came from Queens to Hell's Kitchen for legal help. It was odd, though – usually people don't bring their kids along for a legal consultation. Karen settled down to take notes as usual, while Matt slouched in his chair. Probably got kicked in the guts by a mobster or something.

None of the Parkers seemed to know how to answer his question aloud, though the most honest response would have been:

Ben: "My sh**head d**k of a brother."

May: "Overbearing government agencies."

Peter: "Nurse Robin (Hood), an Ancient Greek monster with too many heads, terrible parenting, and the gym teacher from hell."

Naturally, none of that was said aloud. Ben, in lieu of cussing out his sh**head d**k of a brother in front of the lawyers, chose to make a dad joke. "The New York Subway system."

"Great," Foggy said. _Just great_ , he thought. "So, um, what can Nelson and Murdock do for you today?"

The two adult Parkers looked at each other. It was intense, and deep, and painful, and Foggy felt his stomach drop. This wasn't a simple problem.

"We need help," May said, her voice cracking. "We need to keep Peter safe." Ben's grip on Peter's shoulder tightened.

Foggy noticed Matt straighten in his chair, his friend focusing intently on the family mere feet from him. Foggy wondered how much Matt learned in that moment alone, what he could feel and touch and hear. Maybe Matt could tell where the Parker's worked, or how quickly little Peter Parker's heart was beating. The kid certainly _looked_ terrified enough.

"And we will help," Matt promised. "We'll make certain that Peter is safe. I promise." Matt had that _look_ about him, the look that made Foggy believe that maybe having Daredevil looking out for the people of Hell's Kitchen wasn't such a bad thing, after all. Foggy felt his throat tighten and his eyes grow a little warm – _god_ he was softy, he couldn't start bawling in front of the clients.

Hell, Matt probably just noticed that, the d**k. (He did, and was moved).

"So," the kid's voice cracked a little bit. Karen looked like she wanted to give him a hug. "Yes. Last week the archer dude from the Avenger's gave me a list of all of the legal firms that he and the scary Russian lady knew for certain didn't have any Hydra affiliations. Nelson and Murdock was the only firm in New York that made the list.

"Congrats," Peter finished a bit awkwardly.

Karen was scribbling frantically, Matt was _focusing_ again, and Foggy found himself at a loss for words. The _Avenger's_? _Hydra_? Wilson Fisk was one thing… God, Matt was probably in vigilante heaven.

(Matt was quietly panicking.)

"Okay, we're going to need a little bit more context here, Peter," Foggy said to the kid. "Though, yeah, we can pretty much guarantee we're not Hydra. We'd probably be able to afford a working heater if we were getting money under the table from an evil Nazi organization," Foggy joked. "Speaking of, shouldn't we just be calling Captain America?"

"That's what I told Nurse Robin (Hood)," Peter muttered under his breath. May nudged him. "Right. Yes. So, I was in gym class…" Peter seemed to calm down as he told the first part of his story, though Foggy questioned the screening process for substitute teachers.

Really, though, somewhere between Peter describing his gym teacher as a Russian, female version of Chewbacca and offering an insightful perspective on the usefulness of actually using code names when doing spy work, even if it was just posing as a substitute teacher, Foggy found himself really liking the kid.

"What did the agent tell you, Peter," Matt asked, moving Peter from a tangent about archer-themed superheroes, which Foggy thought was quite a shame. Peter was giving him some really great ideas for ways to better mock his own vigilante friend.

"Right, well, this is where things get a bit hairy," Peter rubbed his head. Ben and May looked as if they were physically steeling themselves for what was to come.

"My dad, Richard Parker, was a pretty famous biologist," Peter began. "But he was also a scumbag Hydra agent, so all of his cool scientist points have been revoked. My mom, Mary Parker, was also a scientist, but she was _not_ a scumbag Hydra agent, which really, at this point, is a bit of a silver lining.

"So, eventually Mom became pregnant with me, which got the evil scientist cogs in my scumbag Hydra agent dad's head rolling. One of his longstanding projects with Hydra was genetically altering people and animals so that they have increased strength and healing powers. Captain America super soldier type stuff. Dad figured that I would make the perfect human test subject – easy access, controlled environment, all that stuff, though he did have the decency not to tell Hydra directly about his side project.

"For five years Richard Parker subtly altered my genetic structure, weaving in some of the genes of a spider. Like, obviously, I'm still human, and I don't think I have any super powers, but I also don't remember ever being sick. I don't know. Hydra cottoned on to my dad's side project and demanded that I be delivered to them for more deliberate experimentation. I dunno, they probably would've tossed me into a vat of toxic waste or something."

Matt shifted slightly in his seat, perhaps in discomfort.

"So Dad, either because he decided to be a decent human being for once or because he didn't like sharing, refused to give me over to Hydra. Hydra, because they're a collection of Nazi jerks, sent a bunch of their thugs to the Parker residence to get Peter and all of my dad's research.

"Mom and Dad didn't like that much, so the Hydra people shot them. Yeah. Er, so it all kind of turns Harry Potter-esqu from here, with the house blowing up and the orphaned kid sent to live with their Aunt and Uncle. But what blew up the place was this agent, who, despite being a Hydra jerk, was a Hydra jerk with a bit of conscience. They didn't want to kill me. I can only imagine how adorable I was. So, the agent went a bit rogue, killing their fellow agents and blowing up my house and all of my dad's research. The agent forged a note to Aunt May and Uncle Ben and dropped me on their doorstep.

"It's kind of funny, even though I know Aunt May and Uncle Ben are my aunt and uncle, we only just learned that in the system I'm listed as being adopted from a junkie in Tucson. Which is cool, I guess. Arizona's got some nice landmarks.

"Anyway, the agent reported back in, claiming Richard Parker had blown the whole place up, leaving everybody dead and Hydra with no Peter Parker to experiment on.

"Which was fine, until all of Hydra and SHIELD's files were plastered onto the web. With a bit of digging and a couple of internet searches anybody could learn what I just told you."

"Sh**," Foggy cussed.

"That's what I said," Ben Parker agreed.

Foggy's mind was racing, attempting to formulate a solution to what had the potential to be a massive problem for the Parkers. The only thing keeping Peter from becoming a test subject for genetic experiments _again_ was apathy and incompetence.

"Karen, could you look up those files?" Foggy asked, gaining his footing. "I need to know what sort of forums they are on, whether anybody has already viewed them."

"It's been months since all of this information was leaked onto the web," Matt was pacing. A month ago, Foggy would have been worried about his friend walking into the table or one of the Parkers. "Wait. So, this is plenty bad, but why is this an issue only now. Hydra has had access to all of this information for years."

"Oh, yeah," Peter shifted in his chair, a bit uncomfortable. "I forgot to mention that part. A few agents in SHIELD who were actually legit had been digging into this for years, uncovering Hydra's attempts at recreating a super serum. They knew about all of this, but thought the situation was resolved, because Hydra didn't know that I'm the same Peter Parker that died. Unfortunately, that puzzle piece is now hanging out on the internet along with millions of cat gifs."

"That's it then," Karen interjected. "Hydra's files on Peter don't matter nearly as much as the one SHIELD file that ties this whole mess to him. All we need to do is privatize that information or alter it just enough that it is misleading…"

"And Peter is in the clear," Foggy finished.

"Why couldn't Nurse Robin (Hood) have just done that, and not pulled us into this mess?" May asked, annoyed.

"Probably just a contrived reason for us to go Nelson and Murdock for some legal help while getting some exposition out of the way," Ben responded, shrugging. "At least the problem is solved."

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April 6, 2015

After the dinky little law firm of Nelson and Murdock fixed the whole "bad guys targeting Peter Parker issue," Peter thought that his chances of being shot had diminished.

He didn't even crack a month.

The first bullet only grazed Peter's arm, but the second and third were lodged in his shoulder. In that moment, Peter should have collapsed in shock and pain. He should have fallen from his horse on the carousel and bled on the ground.

That didn't happen, though. Peter's left arm fell to his side, limp and useless. He couldn't feel it or his shoulder. There was a kid on a horse, only a few feet from him: a little girl, probably in the fourth grade.

Peter stumbled off the horse, a deafening chorus of bullets accompanying his frenzied steps. Peter felt another bullet hit him in the back. He kept moving, tackling the little girl off of her horse.

Her head hits the floor of the carousel, hard, and Peter hoped that he didn't given her a concussion. A final bullet hit Peter, in the back of the leg, and he collapsed on the little girl.

She was crying. Peter noticed that he was, too.

He wished, suddenly and fiercely, that human's had ear-lids. Peter could close his eyes to the carnage developing around the carousel, but there was no escape from fierce clips of gun fire, the impact of metal on flesh, the wailing of sirens, the hoarse cry of a man for his wife, brutally cut short by another bullet.

It seemed to Peter as if there would always be another bullet, until there wasn't, and only the shriek of police sirens remained.

"What have I done?" Peter heard a woman say, but then all he could hear was the rush of blood, and he was lost to the pain.

…

The first visitors to Peter's bedside were, of course, his Aunt May and Uncle Ben, who scolded and cried in equal measure. Peter did not respond, because he was unconscious and about to have his appendix removed.

A small part of Uncle Ben wanted to laugh at the absurdity of being shot in the appendix, of all places.

…

Tony Stark visited next, first paying for all of the kid's medical bills because he had to do _something_ , because Peter Parker was on a short list of people that Tony genuinely liked, at least a little bit.

"He's lost too much blood, hasn't he?" Tony asked, looking directly at the doctor.

She looked defeated. "Yes, and his body is rejecting any matches. His blood, its…"

"Give me a sample," Tony ordered. He was a genius, and a billionaire, and Iron Man, and damn it if he wasn't going to save this kid.

…

The next visitor never entered the room, but he was aware of every heartbeat and every breath Peter Parker took. Daredevil crouched on the roof of the hospital, tasting the scent of blood on the air. There was every chance that Peter could die.

Daredevil growled under his breath. He had vowed to keep Peter safe, and alive. He had failed. Daredevil left the hospital, rushing to find the answers even if he had to interrogate every gang member on the isle of Manhattan.

…

"It wasn't very long after the Battle of Manhattan. Maybe a week, I don't remember. I gave Peter a call, and you know what? He was just so happy to hear from me, to know that I was alright. Not Captain America, but Steve, the amnesiac," the soldier chuckled ruefully. "That kid talked his Aunt and Uncle into giving me a place to stay for a little bit, just enough time for me to get back on my feet. For me to figure out who Steve is, again."

"When he's not busy being a d**k in a spangly suit?" Tony prompted.

"Yeah," Steve agreed, looking from the needle in his own arm, to the pale kid tucked under the hospital sheets. "Peter helped me with that. He showed me around Manhattan, or what was left of it, at the time. We spent some time volunteering, giving lunches to people forced onto the street and such. We spent hours making little cards to put in the bags, I, I drew little sketches on them. Flowers and such."

"I'm certain they were very nice flowers," Tony rolled his eyes.

"I had to leave though. I was still Captain America, and I had – no, have, a duty to that mantle. A promise I made, and all that. So I said goodbye to Peter, saying I had some loose ends to tie up.

"Peter didn't ask me to stay, or anything. But he gave me a hug and wished me the best, and to remember that I always had a place to go back to, in the end. I've had so many chances to visit, or call, and I was just too scared…"

"And now he's been shot five times while playing on a carousel in Central Park," Tony observed. "Saving the life of a little girl. Which is absurd – he's what, eight?"

"Thirteen," Steve replied morosely.

"God," Tony felt sick to his stomach. "But, he's going to pull through. Thanks for the blood, by the way, Cap."

"Yeah, I'm still not clear on the whole 'Peter needs my blood' thing," Steve said, pulling the needle from his arm.

Bruce Banner walked into the room, bearing several beakers.

"Just the man we needed!" Tony gesticulated. Bruce and Tony quickly set up a lab station.

"Steve, do you remember how you're never allowed to compete in a sporting event because of your use of steroids?" Tony asked.

"It was a serum, Tony," Steve responded, a bit offended.

"Yes, well, your blood has a few properties that could help Peter out with his bullet wounds. Minor regenerative healing, mostly," Tony rambled, fussing with the beakers.

"Also, Peter has very fussy blood," Bruce frowned. "Not at all the usual, but yours isn't either."

"So, this will work? You can save him?" Steve asked, a pleading note entering his voice.

"Bruce is the leading expert in the world on what your blood can and can't do," Tony said. Bruce looked a bit sheepish. "Also, I hired Steven Strange to take care of any further complications."

Steve looked inquiringly at Bruce.

"He's a really good surgeon," Bruce explained.

"Peter is going to pull through this, Steve," Tony promised.

…

Peter didn't so much regain consciousness as notice that he was awake, and that there was something he had to do. His connection to any real bodily sensation was tenable at best, but Peter found that he could see, and most definitely was able to hear the soft crying next to him.

It was a little girl, and though Peter was not operating with full mental acuity, he gathered quickly enough that it was the girl he pushed off a horse. Peter felt quite bad about it, really. He hoped hadn't given her a concussion.

Thankfully, the girl was on Peter's right side, as Peter had enough awareness at this point to gather that his left arm was in a sling. Maybe Chewbacca had torn off his arm for pushing the girl off the horse? Or perhaps it was his crazy Russian substitute gym teacher …

Ah, wait, Peter remembered. It was a bullet. Though a bit disappointed that he had lost the use of his left arm in such a mundane way, Peter was glad to have solved the mystery. But to the business at hand, Peter found that he had some control over the movement of his right arm.

Peter placed his hand on the little girls arm. She looked up, eyes puffy, red, and watery.

Now for the speaking bit. "Hi," said Peter.

Success.

"Hi," said the little girl. "I'm Lisa," she said, because names were important.

"Peter," the older boy responded. He very well understood the importance of names.

Then Lisa hugged him, which Peter quite appreciated, because at that moment he couldn't move much, but he still did want a hug. She was crying again, and Peter couldn't help but cry a little, too.

…

Peter was also conscious when his Aunt and Uncle came, five minutes later, and there was a lot more crying and scolding and apologies that were both unnecessary and completely necessary, because carousels were usually quite safe and an ice cream would have tasted very good.

None of his other visitors came back, though. Superheroes, for all that they wear tights and throw punches, are really quite shy.

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July 18, 2015

"Uncle Ben, could we grab some ice cream?" Peter asked, eyeing the Baskin Robins across the street. It was a very warm day in California.

"Only if your Aunt May says it won't spoil dinner," Uncle Ben winked.

Peter looked at his Aunt inquiringly. "Calories don't count on vacation," Aunt May smiled.

"Yes!" Peter exclaimed.

The franchise looked clean and colorful, with ice cream flavors like "Green Tea" and "Wild and Reckless Sherbet." Peter assumed that was a side effect of the stores California location.

"How can I help you?" an employee asked. His nametag read Scott.

"I will have a couple scoops of mint chocolate chip in a bowl," Aunt May said. "With hot fudge, if you can." Aunt May loved mint chocolate chip ice cream.

"You know, I was going to get the "Love Potion #31" ice cream," Uncle Ben joked. "But I figured California is enough of an aphrodisiac on its own." Aunt May elbowed him in the ribs, but she had a smile on her face.

Peter quietly mimed gagging. Scott was silently laughing. "Perhaps I could recommend the "Icing on the Cake" ice cream?" he waggled his eyebrows.

"I'll take it!" laughed Uncle Ben. "One scoop, in a cone."

"And what about you?" Scott turned to Peter.

"I'll have a scoop of salty caramel, green tea, and "S'more the Merrier" ice cream in a bowl," said Peter. "With some sprinkles on top, please."

"Alright, mint chip, bad puns that'll leave you sleeping on the couch and the kitchen sink, coming right up!" Scott bounced to work.

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October 5, 2015

"You made pancakes!" Peter exclaimed, excited.

"Sure did, kiddo," Uncle Ben smiled, plopping a couple onto Peter's plate. "Though pipe down a bit, your Aunt had a late shift."

"Right," Peter said, digging through the refrigerator for some syrup.

"So, where's your field trip to again?" Uncle Ben asked. "Some company…"

"Oscorp," Peter said. "We're studying genes, y'know, Punnett squares and stuff, so Mr. Crowley managed to get our class in to look at some real genetic research."

"That's pretty cool," Uncle Ben grinned. "More interesting than going to Ellis Island again."

"Yup!" Peter smiled.

"Well, have fun on your field trip," Uncle Ben said, watching Peter gather his backpack.

"I plan to," Peter grinned.

Uncle Ben walked up and gave Peter a hug. "I love you, kid."

"I love you too, Uncle Ben.

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 **Author's Note: Thank you all so much for reading! This is the first piece of fiction that I've had the (probably misplaced) confidence to stick on the web, so I really appreciate you taking the time to read it. I just had a story that I wanted to tell, I guess.**

 **A couple plot points were derived from moments in "Great-Grandpa Cap" by youngjusticefanatic and "Little Spider" by savya398.**

 **Also, a special shout-out to the first two reviewers, who pointed out that my fic looked it had been possessed by a computer gremlin or something. There's something of a learning curve to using this site, I suppose. Thanks!**


	2. Part 1 - Additional Drabbles

Never Tell Me the Odds, Part 1 – Some Additional Drabbles

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters used in this fanfiction. Also, assume there are spoilers. (Some for Civil War, and Daredevil in particular.)

Quick note: These extra drabbles can be inserted chronologically into the series of events in the first chunk of this fanfiction. Peter just needed to meet a few more people, I suppose. What a social butterfly.

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 **Peter (Age 8) Meets Peggy Carter**

July 1, 2009

It wasn't that Peggy didn't appreciate the gesture – the nursing home was very beautiful, with plenty of greenery and a pleasant air. It was just so very boring, a sterile facsimile of a happy life that held no purpose bar eliciting some sort of fleeting pleasure for the residents.

She had only been diagnosed with Alzheimer's a few weeks ago, but already she was confined to a cushy prison for the remainder of her days. There was only one thing for it, really.

Peggy Carter was going rogue.

She planned her escape carefully, studying the shifts of the nurses, the routines of the other patients, lifting fingerprints and studying security codes. On the day Peggy freed herself from the confines of monotony, she bribed a large portion of her more lucid fellow inmates to put up a fuss, deliberately absorbing all of the nurses' attention.

From there, it was a simple matter of dismantling the security system and picking the lock on her bedroom window. Peggy made sure she had cash, identification, and a coherent outfit selected before stepping out her window into a flowering bush, quietly cursing her aching knees. On her nightstand she left only a coded note to Sharon, just in case she required back up on her mission.

It was most important, first, for Peggy to create some distance between herself and the nation's capital, and her prison. To that end, Peggy had taken the liberty of ordering a taxi to come pick her up from the bowling alley a few blocks from the nursing home, and then taking a train up the coast to her ultimate destination, New York.

…

The mugging did not take Peggy Carter by surprise. The mugger, clearly inexperienced, had obviously chosen Peggy as an easy mark, dragging her from the streets into a dank alleyway in Queens. What Peggy did not expect, though, was for a child, no more than seven or eight years old, to spring out of one the windows in the apartment building siding the alley and speed down the fire escape, yelling at the mugger to leaver her alone.

Really, now, the kid's heart was in the right place, but he was obviously too young and untrained to be getting himself involved in muggings. Taking charge of the situation, Peggy swept the mugger's legs out from under him, shifting her weight in order to knock the man off balance, then landing a focused punch on his jaw. Peggy was a bit disappointed not to hear the crack of a broken jaw – she must be losing her touch.

Peggy restrained the man by placing one of her aching knees on his shoulder, the other on the muggers arm, leaving the stunned mugger without the means to get back to his feet. On the fire escape, the little boy was looking at the scene in awe.

"Now, young man, why did you feel the need to mug me?" Peggy asked in a no – nonsense voice.

He muttered angrily.

"I'm afraid you'll have to speak up," Peggy frowned.

"I need the money, okay!" the mugger spluttered angrily.

"To buy what? For whom?" Peggy inquired further.

A string of highly insulting expletives escaped the mugger's lip.

"That is a load of tosh, and you know it," Peggy sighed. "Now, drop the tough guy act and tell me the truth."

The mugger grumbled for a bit, but eventually admitted, "Art supplies. I wanted the money to buy some real art supplies, the good stuff," he said ruefully. "Maybe then I could really, you know, prove that I've got something to me, you know?"

"I do," Peggy smiled. She stood up, wincing a bit at her protesting knees. "I trust you not to mug me again?"

"Yes ma'am," the young man said, scrambling to his feet. "You've got a mean right hook, ma'am."

"Quite," Peggy grinned. "I should probably get some antiseptic for that cut before we go and buy you some art supplies."

The young man's eyes lit up. "You'd really do that, for me, after I…"

"You just need a chance, right?" Peggy placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I'll give you that."

"Excuse me," the little boy on the fire escape interrupted. "My aunt and uncle are nurses, so they'd be able to help any cuts n' stuff."

Despite her currently low opinion of nurses on the whole, Peggy agreed, and the little boy skittered down the rest of the fire escape and led the mugger and muggee up to the apartment he shared with his Aunt and Uncle.

…

Peter was giddy with excitement. Aunt May, after telling Peter off for going on the fire escape, pulled out her first aid kit, asked about latex allergies and went to work healing her patients.

The almost-mugger's name turned out to be Ulysses, but he preferred to go by Markus. As a result, he explained, roll call during school had been something of a nightmare, and sometimes the bank wouldn't accept the checks he brought to them, because they were signed to "Markus" instead of "Ulysses."

Arguably the most bad-ass woman in the world had a nickname as well – Peggy, which was short for Margaret. She explained that she took a trip to New York on something of a whim; she had some places she needed to visit. Also, she added with a wink, something was always happening in New York, and she wanted a hint of adventure.

It didn't take long for Peter to decide that Peggy was his hero – look at how she had taken down that mugger! But, even more amazing than that, in Peter's eyes, was how she completely forgave Markus, how she offered help to the man when she was fully within her rights to have him arrested. It was a revelation to Peter, the easy way Peggy showed compassion coupled with her fierce bearing.

After being patched up, Peggy quickly left with Markus to find some art supplies, but Peter did not easily forget the elderly woman who was equally fierce, clever, and kind.

…

Peggy lingered a few more days in New York, quietly infiltrating and dismantling a prostitution ring, but decided to skip town after getting on the bad side of the Dogs of Hell when she tipped the police off and had a major drug exchange of theirs busted. She had heard that Maine was particularly beautiful in the summer.

In the end, it took eight months and fourteen days for Peggy to return to her nursing home, as quietly as she had left it. Best to lure the nurses into a false sense of security before staging her next escape.

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 **Peter (Age 13) Meets Bucky Barnes**

May 16, 2014

Perhaps it should have come as more of a surprise to Bucky, that on his brief visit to Brooklyn before disappearing, that he should stumble upon a trio of bullies, threatening a third, much scrawnier boy in a dank alleyway.

The setting was so familiar, Bucky felt as if he was walking into one of his fractured memories, but the players were very different. One of the bullies was a young woman, and the other two boys followed her lead. The scrawny boy didn't look very much like Steve – his hair and eyes were both dark brown, but he shared a certain spirit that Bucky remembered both admiring and loathing seeing in Steve's eyes, a determination to never back down from a fight he believed in.

He had seen that look in Steve's eyes, not two weeks ago.

Bucky surveyed the scene more closely, battling to remain in the present. The kid had already suffered a couple blows, his lip was split and his hair badly ruffled. Or perhaps that was the style now? It was difficult to keep track of fashion trends over the course of most of a century and across the globe, particularly with Hydra scientists fiddling with his memory.

"You shouldn't have interfered, Parker," the girl held herself tall.

"Actually, I honestly think I made the right call, telling the teachers about your blackmail ring, seeing as how you're having Crabbe and Goyle here beat me up in an alley. There are lots of moral gray areas, but I think I can make a pretty strong case that I'm in the right, here," the scrawny kid, Parker, didn't back down. "I know life isn't a bunch rainbows and daisies for you, Mary, but that doesn't mean you need to take your frustration out on other people." Bucky could tell that, at some level, little Parker pitied his tormentor.

Mary's hand curled into a fist, she was quivering with fury. "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, Peter!" Her cronies restrained Peter, and she prepared to punch the boy.

Bucky moved out of the shadows. "Excuse me," he glared at the bullies dangerously. "Put the kid down." Steve had never liked bullies – Bucky shared that sentiment.

Mary glared at him balefully, but with visible effort restrained herself from lashing out further. "C'mon, guys," she ordered her cronies. "Puny Parker's not worth the trouble."

Peter straightened himself up, and looked over at Bucky gratefully. "Thanks for the help, mister," he smiled at the man.

Bucky stared at Peter blankly for a moment. He wondered, vaguely, if this was the first time someone had genuinely thanked him for something since the war. It felt nice. "You're welcome."

Peter began to walk out of the alley. Bucky noticed he was favoring one leg over the other. "I got a couple good hits in at the beginning, mister," Peter rambled a bit. "But I guess today wasn't my day," he shrugged, as if being beaten by his classmates in an alley wasn't a very big deal. "It's just, once I figured out why so many of the people at my school just let Mary walk all over them, I couldn't let it continue, even if it meant snitching to the teachers."

The pair emerged from the alleyway. "Will you be able to walk home with your leg injured?" Bucky asked. It was obvious that Peter had sprained an ankle at the very least.

"If I catch the subway I shouldn't have to walk too much," Peter replied with false cheer.

Bucky frowned – it wasn't good for the kid to put much weight on his injured limb. "Wait here a moment, Peter," Bucky ordered. He walked over to one of the trees lining the street. With his increased strength and metal arm, it was simple enough for him to break off a branch of suitable size and length. "Here," he offered the branch to Peter.

"Wow!" Peter looked delighted. "That was so cool – you defaced public property to make me a walking stick! I feel like Gandalf!"

Bucky couldn't help but smile, "It was no problem."

"Hey, what's your name?" Peter asked, but then backtracked, as if realizing his question was a bit forward. "It's just, I'd love to be able to tell my Aunt and Uncle about you, and it would be weird to say that this mystery awesome dude saved me an' all."

"My name is Bucky," he said, and for the first time in far too long, Bucky felt as if the name belonged to him.

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 **Peter (Age 14) Meets Wilson Fisk**

February 17, 2015

"God, Peter, you're so weird," Mary intoned dramatically, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. "It's just red paint."

Peter imagined Mary's words dripping off of her tongue, their mal-intent coloring the air around her face. Peter wondered if she could see through the cloud of her own ire. It would explain why she never seemed to learn anything from class – the girl was constantly stealing his homework.

"God, Peter, get a life," Mary shoved Peter a bit more forcefully than could be considered friendly. "What can you even see there but a bunch of red?"

"There's loads to see," Peter finally responded, becoming fed up with Mary's baiting. "It's in the textures, the application of the brush stroke. This painting is full of love, but also full of anger. The red, though, it's too deep to be fire," Peter gestured wildly. "It's bleeding, the paintings bleeding, but you can't tell because everything else is so red, like when you're hurt, emotionally, but nobody can see your pain, they can't see that you're bleeding, because you're already so red and angry, or full of love, or both. There's a thin line there."

Mary's eyes narrowed. "You think you're so clever, Peter Parker, but you're not," she snarled. "You don't know anything about this painting, and you certainly don't know anything about me!" She pushed him against the wall, in the gap between the red painting and the neighboring blue painting.

"Seriously, Mary Jane?" Peter looked at his bully with a mixture of pity and confusion. "In a private art collection?" Not only was their teacher nearby, there seemed to be security everywhere. No art was going to be stolen here. One man was particularly intimidating, towering over everybody else in the art gallery, looking very dangerous with his shaven head and dark suit. And he was looking directly at them.

"You can deal with your more aggressive tendencies later, okay? Not where we might end up needing to pay for one of the very expensive paintings." Peter spoke very quickly.

Mary Jane lowered her fist, as if suddenly remembering where they were. "Fine, "she spat. "But there will be consequences. Just you wait."

"I'm riveted," Peter said drily to her retreating back. "Nothing less than what I would expect from my favorite neighbor."

She flipped him off over her shoulder.

Peter stepped away from the wall – he really didn't want to need to pay for one of the paintings. He looked at the blue painting, next – the red one was just asking for trouble.

A few, precious minutes of study and introspection passed before trouble visited Peter by the blue painting, which was a shame, because Peter thought he saw a pattern and would have much preferred to look at the painting in peace.

"I couldn't help but notice," a gruff voice said from directly behind Peter, "Your difficulties a few moments earlier."

Peter kept himself from jumping out of his skin, but it was a near thing. It would be so useful to have some sort of sixth sense to let him know when people were sneaking up behind him.

"Ah, yes, well," Peter stammered. "That's Mary Jane, for you, always keeping me on my toes. She's working through some stuff."

The bald man was even more intimidating up close – almost as scary as his one-time substitute gym teacher, Ms. Romanoff. The man was vast, with thick hands and a powerful bearing, he gave off an aura of strength, of both will and body.

"That does not excuse her poor behavior," the man stated.

"Maybe," Peter shrugged. "I just wish I could help her, really. We used to be pretty good friends, but then her mother died and her father flew off the handle and I became too much of a nerd to be her friend and she had to get her aggression out somewhere. I just know that if she's picking on me, she ignoring another one of her victims. That's enough for me. I don't think she'd ever maim me too terribly."

Peter realized belatedly that he may have said too much. The man was checking first one cufflink, then another, and his already grim face became sterner. "That is … unfortunate," the man admitted. "But merely menacing others is not the correct path for her to claim the power she seeks. Discipline, as well as a purpose, are required in equal measure. "

Peter imagined that the man, with his dark suit and emerald cufflinks, knew quite a bit about holding power. "I suppose that's true, mister," Peter hedged. He, personally, did not seek power over others, but it did not feel safe to admit that to the man. "She's trying to gain control over her life where she can."

"Mary Jane does not have the self control to command herself," the man said harshly. "It is only when she can do that that she will have the power she needs to exert control over the world around her. But I suppose that wouldn't appeal to you, Peter?"

"I can't trust Mary Jane right now, mister," Peter frowned a bit. "When I can, I'll trust her with as much power as she needs. Maybe in ten years."

"Quite," the man said shortly. "Mr. Parker, it has been a pleasure." The man left, as swiftly as he had arrived.

Peter moved along as well – there may be more peaceful pastures by the green painting.

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 **Author's Note: I can't express to you how grateful I am for the attention you all have paid to this piece of fanfiction, it really is wonderful to see people excited about something that I care quite a bit about! A special thanks to everyone who has reviewed or PM'ed me – it takes a lot of bravery and care to put your opinion out there, and I really appreciate the time taken to make those responses.**

 **So, the plan from here is for Peter to have his "superhero origin" tale spun out, with some minor twists, of course.**

 **What do you think about the liberties I took with the character of Mary Jane? I didn't initially plan to even include any of Peter's love interests in the fic, but once I made the lead bully a girl she sort of wrote herself in. Really, I don't know how I feel about it yet, but it could lend a "Hey Arnold"-ian twist to things.**

 **Quick heads up – I'm starting my summer job next week, so my time to write will be notably diminished, so don't expect as frequent. I'll set a deadline for myself here – Sunday, June 26th. Thanks so much!**


	3. Part 2 - Chapter 1

**Never Tell Me the Odds, Part II, Chapter 1**

 **OR**

 **A Vendetta, Running Mates, and The Biology Teacher from Hell**

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this piece of fanfiction. In addition, Crowley is not an OC, but is instead a character accidentally stolen from the book _Good Omens_ by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.

Other Important Note: The intimidating bald man from the last portion of the previous upload was Wilson Fisk (the Kingpin from Daredevil), not Nick Fury. I apologize for any confusion.

* * *

 **November 5, 2015**

Peter didn't have the opportunity to see very many R rated movies – one of the hazards of being fifteen years old. But, as Uncle Ben would say with a wink, some traditions transcend the bounds of the Motion Picture Association of America.

Peter loved watching _V for Vendetta_ , from the gratuitously bloody fight scenes to watching Parliament explode in a blaze of glory. His favorite part, though, came at the very beginning.

"Voila!" shouted Aunt May, perfectly in sync with the movie, where a man in a Guy Fawkes mask was dramatically monologuing. "A humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate."

"This visage," picked up Uncle Ben seamlessly. "No mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant," he wiggled his fingers, "vanished."

"However," continued Aunt May, "This valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vangaurding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and virulentious, what? – darn it!" Aunt May cursed, frustrated at saying the incorrect word.

"Aww, you almost had it!" Peter laughed.

"Verily," chuckled Uncle Ben.

Laying in bed that night, Peter scratched absently at the spider bite on his neck. He had already asked Uncle Ben to check for any swelling, and he said that the bite looked normal enough, but to come to him or Aunt May if he noticed any hives, difficulty breathing, or felt sick at all. As nurses, both had the experience needed to help if the situation turned south.

Peter frowned, thinking not for the first time today how bizarre it was for a spider to bite him in the middle of Oscorp laboratories. Spiders normally preferred to live in dark places, he thought, not sterile genetic laboratories.

Shrugging off the question, Peter settled onto his side, hoping to quiet his thoughts and fall asleep.

"Remember, remember, the Fifth of November", the famous phrase echoed in Peter's mind, repeating and twisting until it lost all meaning and Peter slipped into sleep.

* * *

 **November 6, 2015**

Sam Wilson planned his jogging routes carefully. The primary Avenger's Estate was, of course, not an option. The same went for downtown Manhattan, where there was far too large a chance of Tony Freaking Stark smirking at him from outside a window. Hell's Kitchen was out, too, as (given his bad luck) Sam would inevitably, _somehow,_ wind up crossing paths with that Daredevil fellow. Brooklyn was out as well – Sam shuddered to think of the time _Steve_ had deliberately trolled him when he jogged there.

That left Queens, which was a lovely place, and there was not so much as a super-powered beetle in sight.

*pitpatpitpat*

Oh, _hell_ no. The jerk behind him was running at a sprinter's pace. Sam increased his own running pace; there was no way he would be passed again.

*pitpatpitpatpitpat*

They were going faster, darn it! Sam began to sprint.

The sprinter approached –

"Don't you say it!" Sam yelled.

"On your left!" the sprinter replied, passing him.

Sam slowed to a halt, exhausted and furious at his defeat. This was almost worse than Steve's usual trolling – he had been outpaced by a _teen_ , with a backpack and everything,

Time to find a new jogging route.

 **…**

Mary Jane thanked her lucky stars that Peter had forgotten to wear his glasses to school today. Usually, his gorgeous brown eyes were concealed behind a far-too-thick lens, providing an unnecessary barrier between her and an eternity gazing into his eyes.

Peter entered the halls Midtown high that morning with the confidence and beauty of Adonis, his unworthy peers parting in his glorious wake. He opened his locker (next to hers, the superb product of some well placed blackmail, eyelash batting and minor espionage – but it was all worth it for Peter "My One True Love" Parker) and ruffled about through the crumpled papers for his Biology spiral, even making careless disorganization look like an art exhibit.

You stoke the fire of my smoldering soul, Mary Jane thought, then immediately backtracked, even in her head, because she disgusted herself with how much she adored Peter Parker.

He was wearing a "Come to the Dark Side, We Have Cookies," t-shirt, and Peter really couldn't be more adorable if he tried.

"Hey Peter," Mary Jane said, loudly enough for the rest of the hallway to hear. (They were the best in regular morning entertainment, after all.) Maybe today she could have a real conversation with him …"You too blind to tell your shirt is the lamest piece of fabric on the this side of the Mississippi? Do the rest of us a favor and try not to display your nerdiness in public, Parker." The cruel words slipped out of her mouth. Again.

Peter flushed and looked down at his shirt, a bit self-conscious. "Yeah, well you don't need any baked goods to go to the dark side, Mary Jane," he bit back.

Urgh, that boy! "You get shot one time –"

"Five times," he corrected tersely.

"Five times," Mary Jane's stomach sunk at that, recalling the relentless fear and worry that had plagued her after hearing the news. For a week she had been inconsolable, until she spied Peter and his Aunt and Uncle returning home. But more hateful words spewed out, much easier on the tongue than any true thoughts, "and you hold it over the rest of us like you're better," Mary Jane snarled, "Better than the rest of us. Like you're a real hero. " Mary Jane spat the word. "But you know what, Parker? You're not! You're not a hero."

"Yeah, I'm not a hero," Peter slammed his locker shut. It shuddered on its frame, creating a tremendously loud clang. "But you know what, Watson? You're already a villain." He attempted to reopen his locker, but found it was jammed. Frustrated, he walked away, his hands balled into fists.

That gorgeous jerk had just called her a villain. She slammed her own locker closed, but it did not sound nearly as impressive as during Peter's dramatic exit. "You're full of s***, Parker."

Mary Jane stalked away, an interchangeable trio from her posse following close behind. She battled hard to keep any of the despair she felt from showing on her face.

She didn't know why she couldn't stop tormenting Peter: perhaps because if she didn't bully him, he wouldn't have any reason to look at her any more. She couldn't bear the thought of Peter ignoring her forever – a world without Peter Parker would be bleak and pointless.

…

Peter had plenty of practice ignoring Mary Jane Watson and her verbal attacks. By the time he reached Biology and settled in to his usual desk he had firmly put Watson's accusations out of his mind.

Mr. Crowley was certain to quiz them on their visit to Oscorp, but Peter, for the life of him, couldn't recall much besides boring tour guides and being bitten by a spider. That, of course, was quite a predicament to be in, as Mr. Crowley derived intense joy from causing his students frustration and anger. His methods ran the gamut from pop quizzes, answering questions with other questions, and insisting that the Earth was a Libra.

On the bright side, the plants in Mr. Crowley's classroom were gorgeous, as if they wouldn't dare to be anything but bright, cheery and green.

"Class, I am pleased to inform you that, as time marches onward, we are now one day further from the 14th Century!" Mr. Crowley exclaimed, as if that were the best news anybody could ever hope for. He began every class with that reminder. He sometime supplemented that announcement with particularly gory details about the 14th Century. He seemed to think that misery deserves company.

This morning, though, with every word Mr. Crowley spoke alarm bells rang in Peter's head, as if a newly awakened primal instinct were warning him that this man was a danger he could not hope to fight.

Mr. Crowley was intimidating on the best of days, unerringly dressed in a fine suit, his hair slicked back. Peter was fairly certain he sipped wine between classes, and wouldn't doubt if he was the head of the mafia. These thoughts had occurred to Peter before, but he had always waved them off, convinced that the same man who owned no less than fifty mislabeled _Best of Queen_ CD's could be anything more than an eccentric biology teacher.

"Parker," Mr. Crowley said, slithering to Peter's desk. "Would you care to share something you experienced at Oscorp, yesterday? Something you learned?"

Peter blinked, his mind blank but for the clanging alarm bells that seemed to shout run, run fast and far with every moment that passed. "Er, a spider bit me," Peter stammered. "And I learned that even sterile laboratories have spiders. Mr. Crowley, sir."

"Did the bite hurt, Parker?" Mr. Crowley asked, his vacant, black eyes shining.

"Yes, Mr. Crowley," Peter nodded, his head aching far more than the spider bite ever did. "Quite a bit, actually."

"Excellent!" Mr. Crowley grinned evilly. "Half credit to Mr. Parker!" His tone became pedantic, "You did not learn the proper lesson, though, Mr. Parker. Which is quite understandable, you are a dumb meat sack that does little more than follow base instincts; however! You are in _my_ class," (Mr. Crowley held a very high opinion of himself) "which means I must hold you to a higher standard.

"You said, Mr. Parker, that the laboratory was sterile, and that you found it odd that it would have spiders," Mr. Crowley was pacing at the front of the classroom. "A good instinct – but you negated that! You presumed that there was a mundane explanation, when really, a far more interesting explanation would be a better suited hypothesis considering the observed phenomena. You were in a genetics laboratory – what is another reason for a spider to bite you there?"

Peter was about to respond with annoyance that he didn't know, that he had enough to cope with already this morning without Mr. Crowley grilling him … but it was in the phenomena this morning that Peter found the answer.

He put on his glasses this morning, but he didn't need them. He ran so fast to school that he wasn't late, an anomaly. He slammed his locker closed hard enough it became jammed shut.

Peter's eyes widened.

"Mr. Parker?" Crowley pressed, a smirk crossing his face.

"The spider could have been part of one the experiments, the genetic experiments at Oscorp," Peter said, terrified.

"Astute conclusion, Mr. Parker," Crowley peered at Peter intently. "Full marks. Goodness, your suffering is going to get me a commendation. I can smell it." Crowley's nostrils flared. "Those bastards won't be able to say I can't do quality work now. Aww, you're terrified," Crowley smiled a sickly grin. "Boo."

Peter tried to leap away from Mr. Crowley as that clanging in his head had been demanding for what felt like hours but he stuck to his chair, as if his pants were glued to the seat of the desk-chair hybrid, and the momentum made Peter and desk-chair topple over, end over end, so that Peter ended up with his back on the ground, the desk suspended in the air. His bottom was still attached to the seat.

The rest of the biology class, though they failed to follow most of Peter and Crowley's conversation, broke into laughter at Peter's fumble without any hesitation.

Mr. Crowley looked positively delighted. "I might even get a promotion at this rate," he muttered to himself.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Part 2 is the Spider-Man origin story arc, which will be several chapters long. Probably. To be completely honest, I'm breaking several of the cardinal rules of writing by going into this without more than a general plan, so that's pretty exciting.**

 **Also, Mr. Crowley is not an OC, but is a character from** ** _Good Omens_** **by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett who bludgeoned me over the head and wrote himself into this story. No need to have read the book** ** _Good Omens_** **to follow the story here, but I would fully recommend it if you like witty writing.**

 **Lastly, I am now employed as a camp counselor, which has severely cut into my writing time (I have sung many songs of broken wagons and dead bumblebees, an assuredly delightful exercise in tuneless repetition.)**

 **With that in mind, the next update deadline is July 10** **th** **, 2016. I will do my best to at least upload** ** _some_** **content by that date.**


	4. Part 2 - Chapter 2

**Never Tell Me the Odds Part II, Chapter 2**

 **OR**

 **Mario Kart, Steve Harvey, and Double Stuf Oreos**

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this piece of fanfiction.

* * *

November 13, 2015

"Goodnight," said Peter, disappearing into his room. It was only eight o' clock.

Ben shared a worried look with his wife. Normally, on a Friday night, Peter would join them to play a game or even just to talk. Lately, though, Peter only briefly acknowledged his guardians before leaving them once more. He wouldn't meet their eyes.

Ben and May had brainstormed explanations throughout the week – a new game, more troubles at school, a bad grade, girl problems – but nothing seemed to fit. Peter, until a week ago, shared all of his worries with Ben and May, though it had taken some persuasion for him to admit to being bullied by Mary Jane. On the other hand, immediately after learning from Hawkeye about his genetic modification, Peter didn't waste any time sharing the details with his guardians.

May settled next to Ben on their couch, resting her head on his shoulder. "He's scared of something," May murmured, twining her hand into Ben's.

Ben absently traced a circle on the back of her hand, hoping to offer some comfort, humming his agreement. "I wish I knew how to help him," Ben worried.

Ben didn't know a lot about parenting, not really. When Peter first arrived into his and May's life, distraught at the loss of his parents, Ben was terrified. Ben and May had never planned on having children, mutually deciding they wouldn't wish to subject a child to the stress of having parents with such erratic work schedules, as nurses do.

The first night Peter stayed with his Aunt and Uncle, Ben confided his worries about being a good parent to May.

"Oh thank god," she responded, relieved. "I don't have a clue what I'm doing, either."

They laughed and cried and kissed that night, coming to a resolution – they might not know how to be parents, but they would be the best friends Peter could ever ask for, comforting him during the hard times and laughing with him during the good.

There had been plenty of tough patches, but Ben was proud of how close their little family had become over the years. Peter meant the world to him and May.

"I'll talk to him," Ben promised May, drawing her close.

"Thank goodness," May smiled wanly. "I thought we were going to need to pull straws." May noticed Ben's look. "What? These conversations are tough!"

"True," Ben pressed a quick kiss to her nose.

The pair settled back, each consumed by their own thoughts, until Ben disentangled himself and crept over to the television. "Mario Kart?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes, please," May smiled. "I'll go invite Peter."

And as Peter sulkily crept down the stairs a few minutes later and accepted the controller, Uncle Ben couldn't help but hope that it would all be okay, in the end.

* * *

November 14, 2015

In a desperate attempt to distract himself from the terrifying reality of his burgeoning superpowers and arguably satanic biology teacher, Peter was falling into one of the many holes on the Internet.

He began the week with a Wikipedia tour of every country on the African continent, but found that to be far to real, so he instead watched episodes of the Powerpuff Girls, until he recalled that he, too, had superpowers, and every trial faced by the city of Townsville sent him into a cold sweat.

He found a comforting outlet watching people play FIFA on YouTube, where any act of heroism was performed by a pixel on a virtual pitch, and where any narrative arc was contrived at best. But, in the moments where the FIFA player wasn't shouting obscenities at computer programs or complaining to an impartial referee, the silence was deafening, drawing Peter into spirals of thought that he did not have the strength to face.

It was much simpler to pretend he did not have any powers at all, Peter convinced himself. This morning, Peter was looking into anachronisms in Disney movies, of which there appeared to be several. Of the lot, the anachronism Peter found the most amusing was the use of the word "fractal" in "Let it Go." The word was first coined in the 1980's, long after the time when _Frozen_ is set.

An errant thought crossed Peter's mind, of the similarities between his seclusion and secrecy when faced with super powers to Elsa's character arc in _Frozen_ , but he did his best to banish that thought. There was no way in hell he was going to "Let it Go."

Closing the tab with the information of anachronisms in Disney movies, Peter contemplated what corner of the Internet he could delve into next in lieu of facing his problems. Perhaps _Family Feud_ clips?

Before Peter could watch Steve Harvey guffaw at the inappropriate answers given by contestants on the game show, there was a knock at Peter's bedroom door.

"Yes?" Peter replied grumpily. Uncle Ben and Aunt May had been giving him worried looks all week, which was really the last thing Peter wanted.

"We're going shopping," Uncle Ben said through the door.

Peter groaned. "I'm busy!" he hollered back.

"No, you're moping," Uncle Ben retorted. "I need you to carry bags."

"I'm not a pack mule!" Peter scowled, pressing play on the _Family Feud_ video. Steve Harvey announced a survey question.

"Are you really watching _Family Feud_ right now?" Uncle Ben asked, incredulous.

"So what if I am?" Peter turned up the volume. Contestants were pressing buttons and yelling loudly.

"Because if you don't stop, we're going to have our own family feud right here," Uncle Ben yelled through the door.

Peter blinked. _Did he really just…_ Peter thought, a grin spreading across his face He paused the video, and grabbed his jacket and shoes, chuckling. He opened the door to find Uncle Ben looking a bit sheepish. "That was a truly terrible pun, Uncle Ben," Peter grinned.

"Says the kid who regularly refers to pairs of crows as attempted murders," Uncle Ben smirked.

"That is a hilarious joke and you know it," Peter retorted.

…

Absently, Peter couldn't help but be impressed by his Uncle's reserve. It took until they reached the cereal aisle for him to start asking questions that Peter didn't want to answer.

"How has school been?" Uncle Ben asked.

 _Mary Jane is still a pain, I still can't open my locker and the sandwich in there is starting to mold, and I suspect that Mr. Crowley has deliberately changed his lesson plans to focus on spider biology and chimeras just so he can leer knowingly at me_ , Peter thought. Aloud, though, he gave a wishy-washy grunt.

"Okay," Uncle Ben grabbed a box of off-brand rice crisps. He liked to sneak chocolate chips into the bowl and eat them as desert. "Good. Top notch communication there, Peter. All I can guess at this point is that you've decided to begin a "Cave-People Club" at your school, but membership is low."

Peter couldn't help but snort. "No, no I'm not the president of the "Cave-Person Society of Midtown High," Peter grinned. "That would be Flash."

"He's the football dude, right?" Uncle Ben clarified.

"Yup."

The pair migrated into the cookie aisle. Peter looked longingly at a package of Double Stuf Oreos.

"You can have the Oreos on one condition," Uncle Ben fixed Peter with a look. "You haven't joined a cult or anything in the past week, right?"

Peter laughed and grabbed the Oreos. "No way, Uncle Ben," he grinned.

"Well that's a relief," Uncle Ben swiped some Fig Newton's from the shelf. He paused, and took a deep breath visibly steeling himself. "But Peter, something is bothering you, and has been bothering you for a week. And your Aunt and I? We're worried about you."

"It's nothing," Peter deflected.

"Peter, it is not nothing," Uncle Ben pressed. "Because something has changed this week, and you are terrified. And it hurts, it hurts so much to see you in pain and not be able to do anything to help."

Peter bit his lip, unwilling to look his Uncle in the eyes. "I can handle it," Peter choked out.

"Sure you can," Uncle Ben said. "You're a good kid, Peter. But I don't want you to have to do this, whatever it is, alone. When you were shot, on that carousel, it was the scariest moment of my life. And right now, it feels like I'm losing you all over again, and I _don't know why_."

Peter warred with himself, fear and guilt battling a longing to share his burden with the man that had raised him, until finally it all broke and he said, "Fine." Peter took the little shopping cart, and wheeled it to the self check-out line. Within a couple tense minutes Uncle Ben and Peter were in the alley beside the supermarket, a couple of bags of groceries dropped haphazardly on the ground beside them.

With obvious trepidation, Peter stuck his hands and feet to the wall and scaled it until he was hanging from one hand and foot several feet above Uncle Ben's head. During the entire venture he tremble like a leaf.

"Ah," Uncle Ben said, looking up at Peter. "Well, at least you're not doing drugs or anything." He paused. "You're not doing drugs, right?"

Peter let himself smile. "No drugs, Uncle Ben." He crawled back down the wall, and placed his feet back on the ground with visible relief.

"Well, there's that," Uncle Ben nodded to himself. He blinked, and his expression darkened. "Peter, does this have anything to do with the genetic experimentation by my s***head d*** of a brother?"

Peter blinked at his Uncle's uncharacteristic cussing, but considered his suggestion. "You know, it probably does, somehow," Peter frowned.

"Remind me to spit on his grave," Uncle Ben growled.

"Duly noted," Peter dryly responded. "I think most of the blame lies with the genetically altered spider that bit me during that Oscorp fieldtrip," Peter clarified.

"A genetically altered spider?" Uncle Ben repeated, attempting to process this foray into the absurd.

"Pretty sure," Peter nodded. "I have the powers of a spider." At Uncle Ben's questioning glance, Peter explained further. "I stick to things. Which is gross, by the way. I'm really strong and fast, too, I think," Peter was slouching against the wall, curling in on himself. "And I know whenever somebody comes up behind me, or there's a spitball or something."

"You don't look too happy about that," Uncle Ben crouched down next Peter, trying to look at his face.

Peter shut his eyes tight. "I don't want these powers, Uncle Ben," Peter slid down the wall and pulled his knees tight. "I'm terrified of what I can do, and what that means for who _I_ am."

For a week, in the quiet moments were he couldn't distract his mind, and his drawn face was reflected to him in a dark screen, Peter's mutinous imagination had conjured scenario after scenario of a future with superpowers. Maybe he'd contact Hawkeye, or schedule an appointment with Tony Stark. He could be an Avenger – save the world!

But it wouldn't all be super-pals and victory speeches. Peter remembered the steel in Hawkeye's eyes, robbed of some inner light; he remembered the terror in Tony's voice, as he was flying to his death, unable to contact the woman he loves and say goodbye; from the veil of child's eyes he recalled the wounded roar of the Hulk as he fled from the ruins of Brooklyn – reviled by the people he had tried to save.

Peter didn't want that, any of it. He'd rather be scrawny Peter Parker, playing nerdy games with his Aunt and Uncle than a hero.

"If you don't want the powers, don't use them," Uncle Ben shrugged. "At least not yet. You're _fifteen_ , Peter. There are lots of heroes out there who aren't minors."

Peter blinked. "I can do that?" Peter asked.

"It's an option," Uncle Ben nodded. "And, really, that's what I'd prefer for you to do…" Uncle Ben trailed off.

"But?" Peter prompted.

"But you might not always be able to ignore your powers," Uncle Ben sighed. "There's going to be a time where you'll spring into danger to save someone. I know you," Uncle Ben fixed Peter with a look, recalling his rescue of Lisa Castle on the Central Park Carousel. "And you'll jump in, because you know you can help."

Uncle Ben grabbed the box of Double Stuf Oreos and took a couple. Peter helped himself as well.

"God, how can I say this…" Uncle Ben separated the Oreo and licked off the cream. "Okay. With great power, comes great responsibility. So, you've got all these powers now, and a load of responsibility has come with it. Supervillains are popping up left and right, and you're going to end up involved, because you're a goddamned _good_ kid Peter," Uncle Ben's voice became choked, "and I know you'll take that responsibility upon yourself."

Uncle Ben paused for a moment, gathering himself. "And it scares me too," Uncle Ben admitted. "However scared you are right now, Pete, I'm right there with you. Being scared. And supportive, and loving you and your Aunt so _freaking_ much."

With a shuddering breath, Uncle Ben drew Peter into a hug on the dirty alley floor.

Peter reveled in the feeling, safely circled in his Uncle's arms, completely accepted despite any abnormalities, and supported whole-heartedly.

The moment passed, and uncle and nephew stood, brushing off their pants and gathering the groceries.

"So, what now?" Peter asked, as the pair emerged from the alleyway.

"For my mental health, I am going to eat this entire box of Oreos," Uncle Ben nodded sagely. "You can have the Fig Newtons."

Peter arched an eyebrow at his uncle.

"Fine, we can split them, you bottomless pit," Uncle Ben granted. They walked slowly, and were only a few blocks from the apartment.

"Says the man who was going to eat the whole box," Peter grinned cheekily at his uncle.

Uncle Ben adopted an abstracted expression. "I wonder if your biological needs have shifted at all?" he wondered aloud. "Perhaps I should start preparing some fly soup, just to make sure you're getting all the necessary nutrients…"

"Ew!" Peter chuckled. "There's no way I'm eating – "

An alarm bell rang in Peter's head, piercing and disorienting, unlike any other sense he had had in the previous week.

A grubby man ran out of the convenience store just ahead, his face obscured. He fired several rounds before scampering away, his blood loot collected, but only one connected.

Uncle Ben collapsed, blood spilling out of his chest.

* * *

 **Author's Note: My self-imposed deadline for the next update is Sunday, July24.**

 **Also, sorry for killing Uncle Ben. I considered having him live through this somehow and having that lead to the ultimate break down of the universe – because Uncle Ben's death is about the only constant in comics – but decided that wasn't the best direction for this story. But boy, it was tempting.**

 **Show compassion recklessly, folks. (Sorry, I hope that wasn't too much of an imposition – I have a lot of feelings.)**


	5. Part 2 - Chapter 3

**Never Tell Me the Odds Part II, Chapter 3**

 **OR**

 **A Pair of Glorified Pajamas**

November 14, 2015

Tony Stark lurked in his lab. He didn't want to deal with people today. In fact, he didn't want to deal with people on most days.

Or maybe that was a lie. He held many lies close to his heart, so close that they became truths.

Perhaps that was the truth. Or a half truth. The hell did it matter anyway, Tony concluded, and he aborted yet another attempt at introspection with practiced ease, adjusting the propulsion system in his (sixteenth) spare suit to achieve maximum thrust.

 _"Tony?"_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupted, her voice ringing from speakers inside the walls.

Tony grunted in response.

F.R.I.D.A.Y took this as permission to continue. " _Ben Parker was shot and killed."_

Well, s***, Tony thought, and heput his project down. Peter's uncle. "When? Where? Are there any suspects?"

 _"Twenty minutes ago, Queens – I am sending you more precise coordinates. The suspect wore a ski mask, but disappeared immediately after the shooting,"_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. shared. " _Additionally, Peter Parker was with his uncle at the time of his murder."_

"F***," Tony spat. He didn't genuinely like many people, but Peter and his family had wormed their way onto the short list. They deserved better than this. "F.R.I.D.A.Y, run a more advanced diagnostic of the crime. I want to know who the f***er who murdered Ben Parker is, and why. They sure as hell aren't going to get Peter, too."

 _"Agreed,"_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. set to work.

"One more thing," Tony said, striding over to his Iron Man suit. "I'll cover the funeral costs. Keep it anonymous."

* * *

November 18, 2015

It was an absurdly nice day, Peter observed absently. The sun shone bright, the only clouds bright and puffy. They were the kind of clouds a kid could compare to rabbits and Hoppips.

Really, though, Peter didn't feel much like admiring the clouds. He would have much preferred for the weather to be appropriate November fare – dull and dreary. The sunny skies felt like an imposition, a mockery, as if the world itself were jeering at his grief.

Peter wanted a bell to toll, and for that thunderous sound to call all people to a halt for a minute – even a single moment he would accept – and to acknowledge and honor the passing of a singularly great man.

Because Peter knew – Uncle Ben was endlessly compassionate, in possession of a droll wit, and a pillar of fortitude. And New York? New York didn't know what it was missing.

For hours, next to Ben Parker's simple but elegant gravestone, Peter mourned.

…

"Goodnight Aunt May," Peter said, moving to retreat to his bedroom.

Aunt May looked up from her recipe. She had been baking constantly since Saturday, and the kitchen counter was littered with pleasantly chewy brownies, burnt oatmeal cookies, and a glob that vaguely resembled an apple turnover.

"C'mere, Peter," Aunt May said, pulling her nephew into a tight hug. "Sleep well. Wake me if you need anything." She pressed a dry kiss to his forehead. "And brush your teeth, no sense getting a cavity."

Peter attempted a smile, but found his facial muscles unresponsive. He settled for a nod and filched a brownie from the overcrowded counter, stealing swiftly to the bathroom to perform his evening ablutions.

He didn't change into his usual pajamas, though.

…

It wasn't much of a convenience store, really. There were similar locations across the country, harshly lit havens of consumerism, with little baggies of snacks and a rich store of cheap alcohol.

Only a few days had passed since the little store had last been robbed. The current clerk, bored out of his mind, couldn't help but be a bit jealous that he had missed the excitement.

The only customer at the moment was a young woman, a regular. She'd been meandering around the store for ages, but the clerk didn't mind. She was nice to look at.

Just as it looked like the young woman had finally decided which flavor of Gatorade she wanted to purchase, the power was cut, leaving the store dimly lit by only a couple emergency lights.

Before the clerk had time to properly panic, a firm hand shoved him against the cigarette display behind the counter. A moment later, he felt the sharp touch of a knife against his throat.

"I need some money," his assailant said, her voice rough and threatening. It was the young woman.

The clerk gulped involuntarily, and hesitantly reached for his keys. "Take it," he said desperately.

The woman growled and inexpertly knocked the clerk out with the heel of her blade. She took a moment to pull on her ski mask. It took several tries, but eventually she found the correct key to unlock the register. Within moments the thief was clearing the register of its paper contents.

"You know, you weren't the criminal I was hoping to find here, but you'll do," a voice jeered from behind her.

The thief whirled around, dropping the cash. The sight was a bit disappointing. If she was going to be caught by a vigilante, it could have at least been somebody cool, like Daredevil. This guy was wearing a pair of glorified pajamas and a stupid red and blue mask he had obviously sewn together himself.

"You look ridiculous," the thief couldn't help but comment, and she moved to stab the offending figure.

He disarmed her easily, though, and used strength far greater than any person has the right to possess to knock her to the ground.

"Now, that's just rude," the vigilante frowned at her. "Not everybody's got Tony Stark on speed dial to whip up a swanky suit."

The thief scramble to her feet and attempted to escape, but the vigilante caught her and tied her to the snack aisle with a length of twine.

"Twine? Really?" the thief snarled.

"I'm still working out the kinks," the dorky vigilante shrugged. "It's supposed to be, like, a spider's web."

The thief gave him a blank stare.

"I'm Spider-Man," the vigilante explained. "Remember the hyphen. I think it's cool."

The thief groaned.

"I've got a whole bunch of cool spider powers," Spider-Man explained further, "But I can't make any webs, which is a bit of a raw deal. That's, like, the coolest spider power!" Spider-Man's voice sounded remarkably juvenile. "Though it would also be hella gross for webs to shoot out of my butt, so maybe it's for the best."

What? "Is this your first time… being Spider-Man?" the thief asked, worried.

"Yeah, am I doing all right?" Spider-Man asked.

"Oh God," the thief breathed.

"Should I unmask you now, or when the police arrive?" Spider-Man asked, bringing a gloved hand to his chin. "Because in Scooby-Doo they wait until the police come…"

"I give up," the thief complained.

"Probably now," Spider-Man concluded. "I don't really want to talk to the police yet." He removed the thief's mask, and a sheet of red hair fell out.

* * *

 **AN: Apologies for the short chapter, life is hard, etc.**

 **On to business - who is the mysterious thief! (Lol, I bet you all already know.)**


	6. Part 2 - Chapter 4

**Never Tell Me the Odds Part II, Chapter 4**

 **OR**

 **The Red Head and the Web Head (I Hate Myself)**

* * *

November 18, 2015

It was such a shame, too, Peter reflected, looking at the unmasked Mary _freaking_ Jane. His first stint as a superhero had been going so well – he'd made it out of the apartment, located a crime in progress, and even stopped that crime. Sure, his crime-fighting gear could use some work, but he had to start _somewhere_.

She just _had_ to mess this up, too. Peter had enough of Mary Jane during school hours; he didn't need her marring his time as a superhero.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Spider-Man asked his captive.

"What's it to you, dumb ass," Mary Jane replied scathingly.

So, Mary Jane was going to be her usual annoying self. Spider-Man tried a different tack.

"You're pretty young, right?" Spider-Man asked unnecessarily. She was a sophomore, just like him.

"Yeah," Mary Jane glared at the vigilante.

"Definitely too young to be robbing a convenience store," Spider-Man mused.

"I was doing fine until you showed up," Mary Jane spat.

"Bit of bad luck, that," Spider-Man allowed. "But the point stands. Why is a high schooler, not associated with any gangs or doing drugs, robbing this dump?"

Mary Jane snarled at the masked man.

"Well, okay, obviously you need money, but why?" Spider-Man peered directly at the red head.

"Stop patronizing me," Mary Jane glared, struggling briefly against her bonds.

"I'm trying to help you!" Spider-Man yelled, exasperated. "Because people, especially kids, that go robbing stores in the middle of the night usually have a reason. Because you're a person, and sure, this is probably just the most recent terrible decision in a score of them, but maybe it doesn't need to be the one that defines your future.

"So, I ask again – why?" Spider-Man bit his lip, a wrinkle showing on his mask. "What drove you to this?"

"My life sucks, okay?" Mary Jane snarled defensively.

"Oh, and you think you're the only one?" Spider-Man glowered. "You probably had a bad day today, right? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, right?"

"You're mocking me," Mary Jane struggled against her bonds, seeking to wring Spider-Man's neck.

"Maybe I am," Spider-Man allowed. "Maybe I'm not at my best right now. Because you know what? I've had a f***ing _terrible_ day." Spider-Man riled himself up, recalling the anguish he felt burying his uncle, the dizzying doubt he felt about masquerading as a hero. "Sure, I'm dressed in some old sweats and a failed attempt at an Iron Man costume from Lord knows when yelling at a criminal, but at least I haven't held a knife to a man's throat! You have an excuse for that, you self-righteous bully?"

At one point, Mary Jane may have been a friend, but those days were long past. She had done nothing but torment Peter, sabotaging any other relationships he could have developed at school or in the neighborhood and subjecting him to daily pain and humiliation. It was long past time that Mary Jane received her due.

Peter could imagine it now – being able to walk into school without the shadow of Mary Jane and her army of cronies haunting his every step. He could make some friends, maybe, or join a club.

Gosh, he could maybe salvage a silver lining from this turd of a day.

"You know what, s***head?" Mary Jane grimaced. "Fine. I messed up bad. I'm a worthless wreck of a human being." Her eyes were red and blotchy, and Spider-Man could her the genuine catch in her voice.

Well, s***.

"I just wanted some money so I could get away," Mary Jane continued.

"Away from what?" Spider-Man asked, a ball of dread forming in his stomach.

"My mom. My dad. This whole f***ing city," Mary Jane said, defeated. "Take a look at my wrist," she ordered Spider-Man. He complied, rolling up the sleeve of her turtleneck to reveal a web of fresh bruises.

"Sh**," Spider-Man swore, his eyes suddenly feeling very warm. Despite the years of bad blood between Mary Jane and his civilian identity, Spider-Man couldn't help but feel a wave of compassion for his neighbor. "Who did this?" Spider-Man asked, dreading the answer.

"This one's from my mom," Mary Jane's face tightened, her demeanor tense. "But my dad will take a swing at me if he's drunk enough."

"Jesus," Spider-Man swore softly. Growing up he had heard muffled shouting from the opposite building, but the words were always indistinct. Now that he knew, Spider-Man felt a pit of shame settle in his stomach.

"So, you masked dingus," Mary Jane settled into her bonds. "How are you going to end the worst night of my life? You going to beat me up too? I don't have any bruises on my shins yet, you could aim there."

"First off, I'm not a dingus," Spider-Man defended himself. "And of course I'm not going to hit you – I've already got you tied up! What would be the point?" Spider-Man gesticulated wildly. "No, I'm going to help you help yourself."

"I was already helping myself," Mary Jane grumbled.

"In about the stupidest way possible," Spider-Man retorted.

"Says the guy in the red sweatsuit," Mary Jane rolled her eyes. "Where do you even buy those?"

"Have you heard of the Internet?" Spider-Man asked rhetorically. "Okay, so your options are to head straight to Child Protective Services yourself, or get a friend of yours to come with you, be support and all that."

"How do you know that will solve anything?" Mary Jane spat.

"I don't," Spider-Man admitted. "But it should have been Plan A to start."

Mary Jane quieted at that. "Sh**," she cursed. "I could've given that guy a concussion."

"Shoot!" Spider-Man jumped up nearly a mile. "I gotta make sure the cashier's okay!" Spider-Man leapt over the register and assessed the man's condition. He was unconscious, but breathing steadily. Spider-Man adjusted the man so that he was in the recovery position, and not in as much danger of choking should he vomit.

Spider-Man felt around the man's head, and detected a small bump, but he could feel no fractures in the skull.

"Is he okay?" Mary Jane asked. Spider-Man could hear the quaver in her voice.

He leapt back over to the snack display. "He should be fine," Spider-Man said. "But I'd like to call an ambulance for him soon He should have his head checked out, just to be safe."

Mary Jane nodded in understanding.

"So, do you have a friend in mind? Somebody to help you out?" Spider-Man asked.

Mary Jane fidgeted, shifting her weight from side to side. "I mean, I have friends at school," she allowed, "but they're not the sort of friends I could talk to about stuff like this. I haven't had a friend like that for years."

Spider-Man remained silent, his mind whirling at these revelations. " _She couldn't mean…_ " a rogue thought flitted through his mind.

"So, I guess I'll just go it alone," Mary Jane said, with quiet resolve.

"Wait," Spider-Man interrupted. "Would one of your _old_ friends be able to help?"

"I don't _deserve_ his help," Mary Jane said morosely. "I've been a total jerk to him for years. Years!"

Spider-Man couldn't help but notice the tears of frustration in her eyes.

"Besides, his uncle just died," Mary Jane continued. "Peter doesn't need his tormentor waltzing into his life, begging for help when he just wants to grieve."

Spider-Man choked a little on his own saliva. "Sorry," Spider-Man said, then cleared his throat. "Mary Jane, he might not be happy about it, he might grumble and complain and yell in your face, but a real friend will always help you at a time like this."

"You think so?" Mary Jane looked up at Spider-Man's goofy mask.

"I know so," Spider-Man nodded his assurance.

A low groan sounded from behind the counter.

"Well, sh**," Mary Jane cussed.

* * *

The guilt gnawed at her, like a persistent worm, the moment where she struck the cashier in the head replaying mercilessly in her mind. He hadn't fallen down all at once, like a cartoon character might when stunned. No, instead he had crumpled at the knees first, his arm trapped under the weight of his unconscious body.

When the cashier first came too, he yelled and threatened to call the police. But then Spider-Man pleaded with the cashier to listen to her story and, miraculously, he did. This cashier, whose own life could not have been much happier than her own, forgave Mary Jane easily, waving away her apologies and wishing her a happier lot in life.

He even offered to steer the police away, and joked that he might get some hazard pay out of the deal.

After a lifetime of exposure to her scumbag family, that intrepid act of selfless compassion shook Mary Jane to core.

And that wasn't even mentioning Spider-Man.

Even now he was walking her to the Parker residence, chattering about the improvements being made to the subway infrastructure, the nerd. When she was at her lowest this vigilante took the time to help her put her life back together. There heroes popping up all the time in the news nowadays – Iron Man gloating, Captain America preventing an assassination, Scarlet Witch halting a runaway train – but she wondered if this shoddily dressed dork might be the truest hero of the lot.

God, if she weren't already eternally besotted with Peter Parker, she could kiss him.

The apartment building the Parker's lived in loomed near. Spider-Man's chatter dwindled as she made her way to the doorbell.

"Maybe I should do this tomorrow," Mary Jane waffled.

"No," Spider-Man shook his head. "Don't put this off. If you don't take this step now…"

 _I'll end up right where I started_ , Mary Jane thought. "Fine," she said aloud, and pressed the buzzer for the Parker apartment.

"I need to go," Spider-Man said, stepping into the shadows.

The doorbell rang. "Thank you," Mary Jane, and she cursed the tears that leaked out of her eyes. Spider-Man faded out sight. Mary Jane thought she saw him climbing up the side of the opposite building.

The doorbell range several more times, but eventually Peter's Aunt May answered.

"Hello?" May asked. "What is it?"

"May?" Mary Jane asked, her voice choked from tears. "It's Mary Jane, from next door. I need some help."

A pause. "C'mon up, dear," May said. "I've been baking up the storm."

The door unlocked, and Mary Jane stole through the foyer, and up the stairs. She hadn't visited the Parker apartment since she was a kid, and Peter was her friend.

Mary Jane hesitated at the door. She was openly crying now, guilt and remorse stewing in equal parts. How many times in middle school had she cornered Peter, gleefully roughing him up with the help of her cronies? She'd manipulated teachers into blaming him for schoolyard accidents, and driven away any friends he might have made. She'd been a grade A b***** this year, too, verbally abusing him almost any time he visited his locker.

And here she was, intruding on his grief. God, his uncle wasn't even dead a week, and she had the gall to come here for help.

Mary Jane almost left right then, but May opened the door.

"Mary Jane?" May said. Her eyes were puffy and red. "Come on in. Would you like a glass of milk and a cookie?"

Mary Jane felt like she was eight again. "Yes, please."

Mary Jane only had time to finish one cookie before she heard a door in the back of the apartment shut. Peter walked into the kitchen, dressed in his pajamas. It was unfair, the most besotted part of Mary Jane reflected, that Peter could look like a male model when woken in the middle of the night. He even made his Hufflepuff t-shirt look like it belonged on a runway in Milan.

"What's she doing here?" Peter demanded.

The ball of guilt living in Mary Jane's stomach made itself known again. "I'm sorry," Mary Jane began, and dammit if she wasn't crying again. "I'm so sorry for being a manipulative b**** and a bully and making your life miserable. You didn't deserve that." Mary Jane tried to swallow, her throat feeling tight from the tears and the stress. "And I'm so sorry about being here now. You deserve peace, not your bully visiting your home in the middle of the night."

Mary Jane was surprised to feel her glass of milk pulled out of her hands. Her eyes were so blurry from her tears that she had difficulty seeing. She was more surprised, though, to be drawn into a warm hug. Peter patted her softly on the back, holding her until Mary Jane regained some semblance of control, and both drew back, though Peter kept one of her hands in his.

"I don't like what you did," Peter said. "It hurt – hurts – a lot, to have you bullying me. But, well, maybe you were hurting too," Peter paused. "I forgive you, MJ."

"I don't deserve…" MJ began.

Peter squeezed her hand. "Doesn't matter," he said. "I forgive you. That's that. Okay?"

MJ nodded, and let the corners of her mouth tilt into a smile. _Lord, I love you_ , an unbidden corner of her mind sighed. It was hard not to swoon, when she had such a good view of his shimmering eyes.

"Now, is that the only reason you visited?" Peter probed.

Well, there went her good mood. "No," MJ admitted with a low sigh. "May? Could you call Child Protective Services? My parents suck," she felt Peter's hand squeeze hers. She went on, grateful for his support. "More immediately, I've got some cuts and bruises that could use some antiseptic."

* * *

 **AN: And thus concludes Part II!**

 **So, unless writing become a deliberate form of stress relief, expect for this fic to be on hiatus until Thanksgiving. I'm student teaching this fall, which I've heard is quite time consuming, difficult, and soul wrenching. (Do I sound terrified? Because I am.)**

 **The next arc of the story I plan to tie into the second season of Daredevil, so if you don't want spoilers you have a few months to catch up! If you have any suggestions on character interactions or thoughts on how I could improve, please feel free to review! (If you're signed in through , I tend to reply with a thank you.)**

 **Have a good fall, folks!**


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